


Dead Man's Party

by xylodemon



Category: American Gods - Neil Gaiman
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-06-13
Updated: 2005-06-13
Packaged: 2017-10-28 14:48:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/309007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xylodemon/pseuds/xylodemon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Jacquel is bored, and Ibis isn't really hungry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dead Man's Party

**Author's Note:**

  * For [katertotter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/katertotter/gifts).



> Written for my darling muffin, who asked for inappropriate shenanigans in the middle of an autopsy. Title from Oingo Boingo.

Judd Johnson was dead.

He'd died the night before in a situation that was not so much tragic as expected. He was on Jacquel's examination table, and he didn't belong there.

Judd Johnson had been be a good seventy pounds overweight. He'd stop at Nonny's every morning for a bacon, sausage and ham omelet with country potatoes, and over the course of each day, he'd wash it down with two packs of Camel non-filters and a sixer of Pabst Blue Ribbon. His only form of exercise had been hitching cars to the tow-truck he'd driven for S & A Automotive, except for Saturday nights, when he'd played pool at the Cavalier Club.

His death had had nothing to do with his gambling debts and everything to do with his cholesterol. Jacquel knew this, and he didn't need to cut Judd Johnson open to prove it.

Jacquel had explained this to the coroner in the parking lot of the Cavalier Club. He'd also said the small bruise on Judd Johnson's side was the from him hitting the corner of the pool table on the way to the floor and not the result of blunt force trauma. But Missy Taylor, Judd's common law wife, had cried foul, and the coroner had listened, because Missy Taylor was a leggy blonde who looked remarkably good for her age.

Jacquel frowned at the late Judd Johnson and picked up his scalpel. It was about time for lunch anyway.

"Subject's name is Judd William Johnson," Jacquel said, stepping on the Dictaphone. "Male, fifty-two years old. Height six feet three inches, weight two hundred and eighty-four pounds."

"Subject's identifying marks include a skull and crossbones tattoo on his--" he trailed off as the door creaked open.

It was Ibis, wearing a suit the same dull, light gray as the walls. He had a cup of coffee in one hand and a loose-leaf ledger in the other.

"Busy?" he asked.

"Hardly," Jacquel replied. "He needs to be sliced about as much as you do."

"Judd William Johnson was born in Memphis, Tennessee," Ibis said. "He was the fifth of seven, and the youngest boy. His parents, William and Lola Johnson, moved to Mounds, Illinois when he was twelve. He attended Meridian Elementary and then Meridian High, where he was on the football team and dated a cheerleader--"

"That's him," Jacquel said. If he didn't head Ibis off early, he'd go on until dinner without even cracking the ledger for reference.

Ibis approached, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

"Cause of death?"

"Pork omelets, chili-cheese fries and chicken-fried steak dinners with mashed potatoes and extra gravy."

"Then why the autopsy?"

"Lunch," Jacquel said simply. Ibis peered down at Judd Johnson and wrinkled his nose.

"Bit rich, this early," Ibis said. "You usually eat lighter."

"He's here," Jacquel said, shrugging. Four thousand years in a country where people did not look forward to their death had taught him not to pick and choose.

"There's leftovers in the fridge, Jacquel," Ibis said sensibly. "The Lovitt girl, and Melanie Smith. I think that bit of liver in the back is Mark Brown--"

"Ibis."

"Anything I can do?" Ibis went on. He sipped his coffee, and studied Jacquel over the rim of his cup.

Jacquel started to say no, but he didn't, because he knew Ibis already knew there wasn't.

They'd lived together since they'd been brought to America, but having dominion over the dead had given Jacquel a solitary nature, and that was hard for Ibis, who was more talkative and social. Wednesday's boy had only been around for a couple of weeks, but Ibis had grown used to having a willing ear at all times.

"Tell me about my lunch," Jacquel said.

"Named Rachelle." Ibis said, picking up right where he'd left off. "They separated the fall after graduation; Rachelle moved to Bloomington to attend Illinois State, and Judd moved in with his brother, William Jr., who had come to Cairo looking for work."

"Hmmm," Jacquel said. He pressed the scalpel into Judd Johnson's left collarbone and sliced.

"Judd took a job at S & A sweeping the floor. His first wife, Darlene Spencer, was the daughter of a regular S & A customer. They had a short, tumultuous courtship, she became pregnant, and they entered into an equally tumultuous marriage. They had three children, one boy and two girls, and she left him for a truck-driver half his age the day the youngest turned eighteen."

"Very sad," Jacquel murmured, moving the scalpel to Judd's right collarbone.

"He met Missy Taylor a year later at the Washateria on Sycamore Street. A conversation about fabric softener resulted in an exchange of phone numbers, and she moved in with Judd shortly after. Initially, they did not marry because she was already was. Her legal husband, Dirk Taylor, was serving a ten-year sentence at Stateville for armed robbery, assault with a deadly weapon and other unpleasantries, and she was afraid to file for divorce."

"Interesting," Jacquel said. He connected the two incisions, and began to cut downward, making the tail on the Y.

"Dirk was stabbed to death in a dispute over work-detail two years before he was due to be released, allowing Judd the privilege of making Missy and honest woman. He never did, figuring, and I quote 'if it ain't broke, why fix it'."

"Why, indeed," Jacquel said. He waited a moment for the joke about cows and milk, but it didn't come. "Ibis, can you hand me that drill?"

"Certainly," Ibis said. He set aside his ledger, which he had not opened, and his coffee, which was now cold, at Judd Johnson's feet and retrieved the drill.

"Thank you," Jacquel said.

He dropped the drill on the examination table, pulled Ibis to him by the tie, and kissed him.

Ibis made a soft sound of protest, but Jacquel ignored it. He kissed Ibis harder, twisting them, pushing Ibis back against the examination table.

"My suit," Ibis murmured, against Jacquel's mouth.

"You have ten more like it upstairs."

"Waste not, want not."

Jacquel eyed him up and down. "Exactly."

He kissed Ibis again, one hand fisting in Ibis' hair, the other dropping to his suit jacket. The buttons were smooth, slipping through the holes easily. He parted the material and Ibis moaned quietly, moving closer, his cock pressing into Jacquel's hip.

Ibis mouthed wetly at Jacquel's jaw and neck, his hands smoothing over Jacquel's overalls, drawing down the zipper. He murmured nonsense in Jacquel's ear, his normally fussy, precise voice now heavy and disconnected, breaking as Jacquel thumbed the head of his cock.

Judd Johnson ignored them both, registering no complaint as Ibis was pressed harder against him, as Ibis' elbow caught him repeatedly in the side, his empty eyes unwatching.

Jacquel came silently, with a sharp breath drawn against Ibis' neck. Ibis came with more words, with quiet endearments collecting in the back of his throat.

"What brought that on?" Ibis asked.

Jacquel shrugged, and pulled a sheet over Judd Johnson. He could wait until after Jacquel had had a beer.

"You haven't done that for almost fifteen years."

"You were bored," Jacquel said simply, "and I wasn't really hungry."


End file.
